Riding Habit

Story from Janus 51.

Riding Habit
by Andrew Grantham

MARK had his head under the bonnet of his car, tinkering with the engine. He checked over his old Fiat religiously – every Sunday. Pausing in his labours, he glanced at his wristwatch. Any moment now. He poked his head around the side of the bonnet and looked up the road. Sure enough there she was, pedalling lazily along, knowing that male heads were turning and obviously enjoying every second of the adulation her face and form merited.

He knew her name was Karen; he had noticed the name on a gold necklet she had worn once before when she had cycled past him. Mark stood alongside his old vehicle, waiting for the vision to approach and then to disappear into the distance. He folded his arms and licked his lips slowly. The girl with the blonde tresses tucked neatly under her riding hat was almost upon him.

It was a warm day and her hacking jacket was folded over the handlebars of her bicycle. A crisp white blouse showed that she had high, well-shaped breasts and a narrow waist.

'Hi,' smiled Mark.

'Hello,' she replied cheerfully, flashing her large white teeth in a gleaming smile. She always returned his greeting, but if he ever tried to engage her in conversation her head would turn away, her pouting lips adding to an air of superiority. Karen was certainly a very classy bird.

The magic moment when she was alongside him came and went. Mark turned on his heel. Automatically, his eyes went to her shapely-jodhpured bottom pressing tightly into the thin leather saddle. The taut-fitting material allowed the cut of her very skimpy knickers to show through.

'Phew!' said Mark to himself. 'What wouldn't I like to do to a bum like that!'

Many more heads turned to watch the magnetically attractive rounded bottom as the pretty teenager cycled to the riding stables, as she did every Sunday afternoon.

Mark exhaled sharply and returned to his car. A few hours later, he again looked at his watch. Nearly time for Karen to be coming back. Two minutes later she came into sight, not riding this time, but pushing her shiny bicycle. She always walked home, pushing her machine.

'Hi,' smiled Mark again.

'Hello,' she said sweetly, her face flushed from her exertions.

Then she was past him and he was watching the inviting sway of her hips as she walked. Her buttocks, thighs and calves filled out the stretched material of her jodhpurs. The central seam emphasised the fullness of each cheek. He could not turn away.

Slowly, still pushing her cycle, she passed from sight.

The following Sunday, Mark was again meddling with his car. This time, it was the turn of the cooling system. Karen came and went to her stables as usual.

Mark decided to give his car a road test when he had completed his job on it. Not far into the nearby countryside, the red warning light came on.

'Damn!' he exclaimed, after an inspection. 'It needs water.'

Grabbing a plastic container from the boot, he set off down the lane. There were no houses in sight but, rounding a corner, he came upon a riding stables – obviously the one graced by Karen's goddess-like presence every week.

There didn't seem to be anyone around. Mark was just on the point of finding a tap himself, when he heard a whistling hiss and a pistol-shot crack followed by what sounded like a yell. He stopped in his tracks and then peered through the cobwebbed window of an outbuilding from where the noise had come.

He wasn't prepared for the sight that met his eyes. His mouth fell open and the container dropped from his hand.

Mark right away knew it was the delectable Karen stretched over the bale of hay, although he had never seen her bare backside before.

He had often dreamed about how it would look – pale and goose-pimply. It wasn't like that at all. Her whole, apple-shaped bottom was suffused an angry sullen red against which darker lines stood out evilly.

Alongside her a young man, dressed in hunting garb, raised a riding crop up to shoulder height. Then, down it came. The lash slashed then cracked explosively, searingly, across the girl's rump.

'Oh! Oh! Oh!' she cried out, her blonde hair tumbling about her pretty features as her body soaked up the pain. Her buttocks bounced and danced frenziedly, riveting Mark's gaze.

Mark pressed his nose against the window. He felt an erotic excitement flaring within him as he watched the anguished writhings of the half-naked girl who had featured in so many of his fantasies. The tingling in his spine spread throughout his body in a shockwave.

Karen's jodhpurs and briefs were crumpled around her black boots. Her firm, milky-white thighs were in sharp contrast to the scarlet bottom with its burning red stripes.

The man with the crop waited just long enough for the blonde's pain spasm to subside. Then he struck her again, the whistling whip making a loud, splatting retort. He could not have hit her harder if he had tried.

'Yeeeoww!' howled Karen. Her hindquarters surged frantically, her legs flailing obscenely. The whole lower part of her body was now in frenzied motion.

Mark's eyes widened in delight, almost unable to believe what he was seeing. Then Karen pressed her thighs together and compressed her buttocks until her bottom was just a thin, tight line.

The unobserved onlooker peered at the young huntsman. He was a good-looking bloke, obviously just the type he expected Karen to go for. It must be his white Porsche parked outside. Mark wished he could change places with him.

Whiiiippp!

The blonde squealed. Mark himself winced as the crop flashed into her battered bottom. He could imagine the sensation of it searing into her skin like a branding iron. Karen twisted her head. Her eyes were closed, her buttocks were bucking and writhing with a life of their own and her breath was coming in short, harsh pants.

Mark knew that although Karen's wealed bum was a quivering mass of hurt, she was obviously enjoying what the young huntsman was doing to her. Enthralled, he continued to watch as her bottom greedily rose up to greet each stroke.

He stayed until it was all over. Karen lay sprawled in a star-shape, lewdly exposing herself, whilst she recovered from what had indubitably been an intensely sexual experience for her.

Mark smiled. Now he knew why the lovely blonde always pushed her bicycle home from the stables!

Episode at St. Angela's

Story from Roue 08.

Episode at St. Angela's

Although now 17 1/2 and in her last year at St. Angela's, Julie Williamson had still no real idea of what she wanted to do when she left school. She would certainly be ready to leave – well, still getting your bare bottom caned at 17 was not a pleasant experience; even when the master was not as vicious with it as Mr. Evans (History) who was only content when he'd reduced you to a state of sobbing, squirming wretchedness. Of course when she was younger there were romantic ideas of such things as airline stewardess – but now, with leaving imminent, well, no real idea at all. So when she went to the Head at the beginning of her last term to discuss careers – it must be said that her mind was a bit of a blank.

She was also nervous, for the last time she was in his study (the last day of term before the Easter holidays) it had been to receive six with his cane on her bare bottom. (Although not nearly as bad as Mr. Evans, the Head had really striped her and going home for Easter the next day she'd been afraid the marks would still show for her mother to see. Mrs. Williamson, of course, like other mothers of St. Angela's girls, was quite unaware of the punishment meted out to her daughter's shapely bottom in the cause of school discipline: but Julie carefully made sure that Mother did not see her without knickers.) So Julie had been a bit apprehensive going in to see the Head but, it turned out, without reason. For he had learned of this position with Boutts Bank, the wellknown city bankers, which he thought Julie well-suited for: in fact it was Personal Assistant to Mr. Martin, the Head Office Manager, so really most impressive-sounding, and working in London too! It sounded really tremendous – if she could get it. But the Head seemed confident that she could.....

The Head was in fact sure she'd have no trouble: pretty girls from St. Angela's very rarely did. And Julie was of course a pretty girt, the big blue eyes and full soft mouth giving somewhat the impression of immaturity and innocence, but at 17 these were definitely offset by her figure which was that of a young woman: full-grown, firm and shapely. And, absentmindedly running his hand over her firm bottom as she stood at his desk, he mused that not only would she get the job but she would give every satisfaction to her employer. And to a responsible Head that was just as important, and anything less would be a definite blot on his copy-book.

Complaints were extremely rare, of course, with St. Angela's girls, although there had been that unfortunate case of Penelope Rogers two years ago. Placed with Carruthers Simpkins and Carruthers, a first-rate old established law firm – well, apparently the very first week there she'd refused to take down her knickers for a spanking. Worse still it had been the senior partner, old James Carruthers – in his sixtys and a bit doddery who's chief pleasures now came from his stamp collection and the bottoms of pretty girls. The old boy had been looking forward to Miss Rogers with keen anticipation, but then the little minx had simply refused to take down her knickers and get over his desk. She'd been sacked of course – dismissed at the end of the week – with some awkward explaining to do to her parents back home. Probably serving in Woolworths now, the Head thought with some satisfaction. But dear me – altogether a matter best forgotten....

But no, there would be no such problem with young Julie Williamson, who was such a good, docile girl. Normally cheerful too in spite of the fact that she did get what was certainly more than her fair share of caning: for he knew that quite a number of the staff were very keen on her in that regard. 'Mmmm.' His hand still on her bottom, the Head's mind went back to his own last time with her: that last day of term before Easter. It had been the first time for some weeks that he'd found an excuse to cane her (she'd been late for assembly) and while he wouldn't normally cane a girl when she was going home the next day (as the marks might show) he hadn't been able to resist; and had told himself she was a reliable girl who would be discreet.

He had brought her here to his study, of course – he did so prefer it to the Punishment Room: so much more pleasant and intimate. And she had obediently lowered herself over his chair – the hands on floor position, undoubtedly much the best posture for getting a girl's bottom really up and ready for it. Yes, a most appetising girl. He had taken her knickers down and, using his thin whippy cane, had really teed off on the pale, rounded cheeks, striping them with six angry red lines and bringing hot tears to those pretty eyes. Sniffling, she had tried to turn away as she pulled her knickers back up, but really a 17 year-old should not be shy with her Headmaster and he had made her face him; and in fact had held her skirt up round her waist as she struggled with her knicks. She was certainly a well-developed girl now, with quite a thick bush down there – a couple of shades darker than the medium blonde curls which framed her face – and he had looked with keen interest... But he was not a hard man and when she'd finally got them back up he had given her his handkerchief to dry her eyes.

The Head broke off his reverie... Yes, he was quite sure Julie would give full satisfaction to any employer: 'Don't you worry, my dear. I am quite sure Mr. Martin of Boutts will lose no time in deciding that you're just what he wants. Run along now, and I'll get on the phone about an interview straight away.'

'Yes Sir. And thank you very much Sir!'

An interview was arranged without delay, to take place at the school the next week. The intervening days were naturally awful, with Julie on tenterhooks: for the more she thought about the job the more exciting it seemed, and by the same token the more difficult to get. She was distracted in class and was probably fortunate to get taken to the Punishment Room only once – for day-dreaming in French Class. But fat Mr. Pomeroy was not too bad anyway as he preferred taking you across his lap and using his hand rather than the cane. The nail-biting days somehow passed...

The Head obviously realised Julie's nervous state and the day before the interview he advised her to get an early night: he told her to get into her pyjamas and he would bring a mug of hot cocoa round to her room, which was certainly thoughtful of him. She also had a phone call from home after supper, both Mother and Dad wishing her well, and Mother even putting Julie's pet retriever on the phone to bark encouragement! The Head arrived, mug in hand, at 9 to find Julie in her pyjamas having just taken a bath and washed her hair. She looked a picture of schoolgirl health, flushed and fresh from the bath, her hair still damp, and her shapely figure clearly revealed in the thin pink pyjamas: in particular he noticed that her nipples were erect, sharply defined under the cotton top. Julie saw the Head's keen glance and, embarrassed, said she'd get her dressing gown but he said not to bother. She really was delightful and he stayed – well, it must have been for half an hour – while she drank the cocoa and talked about home and her family and her dog Bobsy, and did her best to relax.

Yes, a very pleasant girl, mused the Head as he walked back across the quad under a starry sky. Obviously tense of course with the coming interview and, he thought, being wise to the ways of young girls, probably now in bed with her pyjama bottoms down relieving her tension with her hand between her legs.....

Whether or not the Head's surmise was correct Julie was certainly a bundle of nerves the next morning, quite unable to face any breakfast and hardly able to concentrate on dressing. But finally she did and got herself, all smart and spruce, outside the Head's study just before the 10 o'clock deadline – then, horrors, she felt an overwhelming need to pee. There was nothing for it but to rush to the loo, desperately yank down her knicks and sit on the seat.... only to find she didn't want to after all! She tore back – but it was now 2 minutes after the hour. Gripes! She knocked nervously...

'Come in!'

Julie entered and there were the Head and a rather severe-looking man in his mid-fifty's (presumably Mr. Martin), both seated at the Head's desk. The Head glanced at the clock:

'Well close the door my girl, and come over here!'

Julie stood nervously before them, her young body firm and shapely under her school uniform; and her nervousness was not improved as she recognised the chair Mr. Martin was seated on as that which she'd had to bend over when the Head had taken her knickers down before Easter... But the Head was continuing:

'Now Mr. Martin is just going to ask you a few questions, Julie; nothing too difficult I am sure, so don't look so unhappy!'

The Head's little quip drew a rather forced smile from Julie but did nothing to relax her. She remained tense and nervous-looking, standing just in front of the desk with firm young breasts pointed at the two men, and did her best with Mr. Martin's questions. Well, it was not too bad to start with but when he got to office procedure, filing, etc. she was at a complete loss. She found herself sweating. It was made worse by Mr. Martin's way of staring intently at her as she struggled for an answer. He must think her a complete idiot.... Really she'd been quite foolish even to think of this position....

But in fact Julie's impressions were wrong, for Martin definitely liked what he saw: the pretty teenager, of above average height and slim-waisted but otherwise firmly filling out the uniform white blouse and short navy blue skirt; while below were long shapely legs in dark nylons and sensible strap-over shoes. Yes, a most attractive package. She was obviously a bit apprehensive, fiddling with her skirt and a couple of times nervously pushing back a blonde curl from her face, in doing so her raised arm thrusting into prominence firm high breasts under the crisp blouse. Yes indeed, definitely a promising candidate for his vacant position of Personal Assistant. A little nervousness was not a serious fault in an attractive girl – it frequently spoke of a submissive nature: and her ignorance in certain areas was likewise of no real consequence, in fact rather than listening too carefully to Julie's answer Mr. Martin was thinking that he'd like to see more of her, under that school uniform: to unfasten those blouse buttons one by one and check the twin bulges which she was innocently pointing at him; mmm..., he thought of firm thighs above the nylon tops...; and most of all, of course, he would like to slip down whatever knickers were under that skirt and check her bottom...

For the truth was that, like many clients for St. Angela's girls, Mr. Martin was especially keen on the young female bottom: that region of a young lady provided especially for her training and correction, as it were, the seat of discipline. He was indeed a devotee of correction in young ladies; and with a Personal Assistant he liked to get a young girl fresh from one of the more reputable schools where she would have had a taste of the cane and build on this early training himself. Yes, he thought this candidate most promising, although of course he'd want to see her alone before finally deciding. First, though, a word in private with the Head...

Julie was dismissed, to return when called. Flushed as she was by her ordeal, she nonetheless managed decorous 'Thank you, Sirs' to the Head and Mr. Martin and followed this by a demure exit. Martin's gaze followed the rhythmic movement of the teenager's skirt.... and he wondered about her knickers. White, probably, matching her bra. But some of these old schools favoured navy blue or green... Hmmm...

The Head's voice interrupted his train of thought:

'I am quite sure, Mr. Martin, Miss Williamson will give you every satisfaction. She was a little nervous just now but...'

'Yes, yes. Headmaster, she seems a most attractive and pleasant girl. I assume she has been... mmm... well-disciplined. I mean I assume you do practice a little... ah... corporal punishment at St. Angela's?'

'Indeed we do, Sir. We do not advertise such matters to the hoi-polloi of course; but yes we do – as do all the better schools.'

'Ah, quite, quite, Headmaster; and this would be on the girl's... mm... posterior?'

'On the bottom, yes: we find that most effective.'

'Excel lent, Headmaster. I thoroughly agree... One final point... would that be on the girl's... bare...?'

'We do find it satisfactory; not always, for it is a matter of judgement, but certainly at times, for the recipient's appropriate undergarment to be removed so that she can fully appreciate the correction. Yes, certainly we cane on the bare, as you say.'

'Good, good, Headmaster. It's just that I wish to make sure what Miss Williamson's background in this area has been.' (To make sure she was used to having them taken down in fact!)

The Head understood entirely. Mr. Martin obviously intended to continue the methods employed by the school and give the young lady's bare bottom a regular warming. Most admirable! 'I quite understand, Sir. Rest assured that Miss Williamson has had the full St. Angela's training, as have all our girls. She has been most receptive and I am sure if you wish to continue such training she will continue to respond.'

'Ah, excellent. That is what I wished to determine. As you can appreciate, when training young staff in their duties – well, a little correction is often necessary. For girls can sometimes get a little out of line once they've left school.'

'You will find Miss Williamson will accept such matters without argument.'

'And she is also... discreet?' (The Bank, of course, had its reputation to consider. It would never do if word got out, for such matters could so easily be taken out of context. Young female staff having their knickers taken down for the cane! Well the gutter Press would have a field day. And there could be wider ramifications as well. For the Bank had its extra special clients who were allowed to borrow a female assistant for, say, an afternoon. Girls frequently returned from these assignments without their knickers or with a reddened bottom or both... Such arrangements made for friendly relations with valued clients but if an indiscreet girl were involved, well, it didn't bear thinking about.)

'Obedient and discreet, Mr. Martin. Have no fears, I can assure you that you will be very happy with this young lady.'

'Excellent, Headmaster, excellent! Well, if I could just have a few final words with Miss Williamson. This need not detain you for I am sure you are a very busy man. But if you had a vacant classroom nearby...?'

'Mr. Martin, say no more! You may use this very study: as it happens I do have business in another part of the school. I will ring for her now and you can take as long as you like. I will instruct my secretary to see that you are not interrupted...'

The two men started to exchange cordial farewells as the Head rang the bell for Julie to return...

Meanwhile Julie had been required to wait with Figgins the school caretaker-cum-handyman, in his room further down the corridor. This was not something that many girls at St. Angela's would have relished, for George Figgins – fiftyish and shifty-looking – was an old lag with a decided taste for female anatomy (and in particular a certain part of the female anatomy) which he grabbed whenever the opportunity was presented. He was in fact the sort of person unfortunately all too often found in such employment in girls' schools. When the Head rang the bell Julie had been in Figgins' room for 15 minutes....

* * *

Julie had felt definitely sick when told to wait with Figgins. She still remembered hotly what he had done to her a year ago when she was 16. She had gone for a walk in the school wood one June Saturday afternoon, when the place was deserted – except for Figgins who had crept up on her in a secluded comer, and then grabbed her. He had pushed her to the ground and then holding her down with one hand had used the other to pull down her knickers. In spite of her frantic struggles he had taken hold of her between her legs and after fumbling around, his finger had found her entrance and slid in. She had squealed and yelped but he had continued to hold her down while sliding his thick finger in and out... He had finally let her go saying: 'Arr, that's what you young girls like!', and left her, hot and distressed, fumbling her knickers back up.

She hadn't liked it at all of course but there was nothing she could do about it. If you tried to complain about Figgins he would just deny it and instead report you on some trumped-up charge, and you'd get a caning for your trouble. So she'd just put it down to experience. She knew that Figgins was in the habit of doing that kind of thing and in fact some girls, if he could get them off a caning as he sometimes could, would let him... As for Julie she found him most unsavoury and kept out of his way if she possibly could.

The one saving grace now, having to wait in his room, was that someone might come in for him at any time and this inhibited him from really going to work on Julie. And apart from two quick gropes up her skirt she kept him at bay until the bell rang, when she lost no time in darting out ('Blimey, you're keen to get back in there!').

She walked quickly down the corridor, paused to straighten her hair – and her skirt (Figgins!) – and knocked discreetly. The Head appeared:

'Ah, Julie, there you are... Well you will be pleased to hear that you have favourably impressed Mr. Martin. He now wishes to have a little word with you in private.'

Julie, fresh from struggling with Figgins and not quite able to credit what the Head was saying, had difficulty in collecting her thoughts: 'Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' She re-entered the study, closing the door silently behind her on its well-oiled hinges.

'Ah my dear Miss Williamson. Yes, well let me say right away that I have been most favourably impressed with you, and I believe you can make a success of a career with Boutts. So, in short, I can offer you the post...'

Julie flushed: it was true then!

'Oh Sir. Thank you Sir. I... well I'll certainly do my very best.'

'I'm sure you will, my dear.' Mr. Martin moved in close and slipped his arm round a slim waist. 'I'm sure we will get on just fine.' His hand squeezed gently... the pliant flesh... 'Mmmm... Yes... As my assistant I shall of course be able to instruct you personally.' The hand slipped down onto Julie's flank... the rounded hip... She trembled slightly. 'So I'm sure you'll have no problems. Mmm...' The hand discovered the strap of her suspender-belt through the skirt. She stood still, slightly tense, as the fingers followed the strap down to the suspender clasp. 'Mmm...' It was obviously interesting and in fact Mr. Martin inquired... She told him that St. Angela's required dark nylons and suspender-belts for Sixth Formers. Hmmm... He digested this information while his fingers wandered onto the nylon top... Julie stood still, submissive. She knew he was just being friendly and reassuring: quite different from that dreadful Figgins, or indeed masters like Mr. Evans!

Mr. Martin was telling her about the Bank and what she would be doing, and it all sounded quite exciting. His hand was still behind her, playing with her nylon tops through the skirt and then, as they discussed travel and commuting, the hand came up and cupped her bottom. As it happened Julie had an aunt with whom she could stay in Wimbledon so there would be no problem. 'Most excellent!' said Mr. Martin, giving her bottom a firm squeeze.

Then he told her about the Stack Room at the Bank. Part of her duties would be in there sorting documents and as it was rather dusty the Bank supplied girls with special overall-dresses, worn in place of a girl's normal dress: 'Light-blue nylon – actually they're rather smart,' said Mr. Martin. Anyway if he took her measurements now they could have this ready for when she started. It seemed a good idea, and as it happened he had a tape measure with him....

Well he did feel her breasts while taking her bust measurement, but not in a nasty way. He asked if she always wore a bra... some of the girls at the Bank didn't – only of course if they had the figure for it: and he then took hold of Julie's and squeezed them a bit, and told her they were certainly firm enough.

She was a bit embarrassed when she had to lift her skirt up round her waist for the hip measurement, but tried not to show it. For Julie's white nylon knickers were brief and unfortunately rather tight (well, she hadn't expected that Mr. Martin would see them), and when he had to kneel down in front of her to take the measurement, with his face really quite close to her... down there... well, she felt quite hot... And then she had to turn round and of course it was the same, the brief knickers only partially covering her full bottom with the tight nylon rucked into the cleft between the cheeks. Obviously he had to take the measurements but at the same time she was certainly glad when he finished.

Julie was allowed to drop her skirt. Mr. Martin then told her that the Stack Room was rather warm, 'Some would say kept unnecessarily hot,' and some girls wore nothing under their overall when working there. To emphasise the point Mr. Martin stressed: 'I mean no knickers.' Julie blushed. He put a friendly arm round her waist: 'Anyway, we'll be able to discuss such matters after you've started.' She wondered briefly what that meant....

Then – out of the blue – he remarked that they'd never had a St. Angela's girl at Boutts before! 'Tell me, what do they use here: the cane, or the strap, or both?' It was not a question she had been expecting. 'Both, Sir.' 'Hmm... on the bare bottom?' She flushed: 'Sometimes, Sir.' 'You have been caned, I assume?' Julie's gaze dropped to the floor: 'Yes, Sir.'

'Tell me about it.'

Julie fidgeted, embarrassed. 'It's alright: I know such matters do not normally go beyond school walls but I think I am in a somewhat privileged position...

'Y..yes well, y..you normally get it in the Punishment Room... but sometimes the Head... does it in here. Sometimes other masters take you to their rooms for it as well but they're not supposed to... W-well... you have to bend over a... a chair... sometimes over the back of it... with your hands on the seat... and sometimes lie over the seat w..with your hands on the floor... Oh, and sometimes of course the master makes you get over his lap... Well... then the master... he... pulls up your skirt and if its... you know... knickers down... well it usually is... he... he takes them down and...'

'Yes, I see.' Mr. Martin's hand was now gripping one cheek of Julie's bottom. Have you recently...?'

'Pardon?... Oh... Yes, Sir. Last week, Mr. Pomeroy... that was a spanking... and also, the Head... the end of last term... the cane... in here, Sir.'

'Hmmm... Did Mr. Pomeroy take your knickers down?' 'Yes, Sir.'

'And the Head...?' 'Yes, Sir.'

'Mmm...' Mr. Martin's hand was still busy behind Julie. The knickers were certainly brief and on either side the fullest part of the cheeks were not contained... It was indeed a most caneable bum...

'Still, I'm sure It's all for your own good, even though you're quite a big girl now. I expect you realise that?' 'Yes, Sir.' 'Because at Boutts we do like to have a girl who's properly disciplined!'

Mr. Martin reluctantly took his hand from Julie's bottom and looked at his watch: 'Good Lord! I really must rush: due back in town this afternoon! Really, it's too bad. I should have liked to take you out to lunch.' It would certainly have been a chance to get to know her better... lunch (and one or two drinks) did wonders in relaxing an inexperienced girl... afterwards a drive in the country... and he thought of the tight brief knickers under her skirt... But duty unfortunately called.

'Anyway, young lady, I can see we're going to get along very well. You're obviously a very sensible young person – not at all like the typical modern teenager. Yes, quite a credit to your school!'

'Thank you very much, Sir.'

'You will be hearing formally from the Bank of course...'

'Thank you, Sir.' Julie gave him her best sweet smile as his hand went round behind her for a final feel....

She had just left the study, her head in a whirl, when the Head appeared in the corridor. He immediately ushered her back in...

'Well, young Miss, I do believe you have been successful. My congratulations!'

'Thank you, Sir. I... well I can't really believe it!'

'Well, it is true I can assure you. And I do think it calls for a little celebration.' The Head went to his cupboard from which he extracted a bottle of Croft 'El Fino' and two sherry glasses: 'Yes, my dear, a little toast to you and your future!'

Still somewhat bewildered by it all Julie took the glass, raising it to full soft lips. It was unbelievable: after all that worry and tension, here she was with a super job in London, drinking sherry with the Head. She shook her head and laughed: 'I just can't believe it!' Super, super! All her friends would be just green!... She'd have to phone Mother right away of course! Ooohh, she felt like... well, walking on air!

The Head looked over his glass at the pretty girl, her eyes shining. She looked most enticing... and he thought of that shapely bottom under her short skirt. Mmm... he was certainly in the mood for it... not a caning of course, but perhaps a good spanking over his lap. And then he remembered – of course, she had been two minutes late for her interview – a most adequate reason for slipping her knickers down. Well, he couldn't allow any relaxing of standards, just because of all this euphoria. No that would never do!

He took the two glasses; and Julie looked enquiringly, thinking this might be the cue to leave, but... 'Not quite yet, young lady... a little matter outstanding...' Being late for an important interview could not simply be ignored... no, it would be a few minutes yet, well perhaps more, before she could leave...

'Yes, over my lap please... that's it, head well down... mmmm... and I think... we'll have the knickers right off... then we can do the job properly, can't we...' Because with knickers completely off, rather than merely lowered, the subject's legs were free to part... and usually did...

Julie no longer felt like walking on air as her knickers were removed and she got into position over the Head's lap. She consciously kept her legs together in an endeavour, like any modest 17-year-old, not to show anything; although in her upended position this attempt could not be entirely successful and it was inevitably to be partially seen, peeping from the juncture of her thighs... But the Head liked more than a peep and as his spanking continued he was rewarded, for she became oblivious to everything except the sharp stinging smacks and modesty was forgotten: and without the restraining presence of lowered knickers the thighs relaxed, and parted... fully revealing to the Head what he liked to see. She was of course a very well-developed girl...

(The Head anyway was strongly of the opinion the excessive modesty in his girls was to be discouraged (at least where he was concerned), it being a pernicious hangover from Victorian times. Indeed in pursuing this philosophy did he not, when taking girls (small select groups) to his country place at weekends, insist on a complete ban on knickers throughout the duration of the visit. And on arrival there he would personally remove each girl's garment, to be retained in his charge, until the return to school on the Sunday evening. Indeed a man of firm beliefs.)

The spanking continued on the now freely-displaying Julie until the Head was satisfied that he had done justice to her splendid rear and rendered it and her upper thighs a uniformly rosy hue. Only then was she allowed to rise and, red-faced as well as red-bottomed, replace her knickers. Reflecting unhappily that even today there was no getting away from the St. Angela's routine, Julie said her 'Thank you' to the Head and exited.

Her mind a turmoil from the day's events, she walked unseeing along the corridor.... and straight into Mr. Evans coming the other way. She came back to earth extremely rapidly! Oh No!

Mr. Evans made an equally quick recovery: 'Miss Williamson!'... he pushed her up against the wall: 'Stand still, girl!' and his hands made a quick reconnaissance of her breasts... 'Mmmm..' He had not had an excuse for getting his hands on Julie for quite some time: 'And what do you think you are doing?'

'I... I'm very sorry, Sir.'

'And you will be, my girl, wandering along in a dream and knocking into members of staff... I think a visit to the Punishment Room is called for. Yes. A touch of the cane on your bare bottom is what you need, young lady. Come along: I intend to have your knickers down right away.'

Julie felt sick but she had no option but to go meekly, Mr. Evans a step behind ('Smartly now, girl.'), his hand almost immediately up her skirt at her tightly knickered bottom, still smarting of course from the Head's attentions. Down the stairs... along the corridor... the familiar route... and all too soon the sight which every girl at St. Angela's dreaded: the door of the Punishment Room with (how convenient for Mr. Evans!) the sign now reading 'Vacant'. He ushered Julie in, then closed and locked the door with a gleam of anticipation in his eyes: 'Now, Miss, we'll see about such unseemly behaviour....'

He took a medium weight whippy cane and bent it testingly. Mr. Evans was in no mood for delay: 'Come on, Miss, over the chair and we'll get your knickers down. Your bottom is obviously badly in need of a reminder of what we regard as proper St. Angela's behaviour...' He flipped up Julie's skirt as she got over the seat of the chair and reached his fingers into the waistband of her knickers: 'Well, I think I can give it what it needs....'

So Julie's day – tension, triumph, an unexpected spanking from the Head – was finishing in a way that perhaps typified St. Angela's: head down and knickers down over the chair in the Punishment Room. Her bottom, pink from the Head's work on it, was about to receive what all St. Angela's girls feared most: a caning from Mr. Evans. She started weeping in anticipation, fearfully wondering how many she would get........

Taking Her Medicine

Story from Blushes Supplement 24.

Taking Her Medicine


It was a large and luxurious hotel, living up to its name: The Grand. But then money was no real object for Mr Bellish, he could well afford to indulge himself. Having no money problems of course may not be everything — a man in that position can easily become bored with life without the central interest that making money provides for the rest of us. But George Bellish was fortunately not in that situation. He had his young companion. Joanna. His niece as he sometimes referred to her. 'Mr Bellish and niece,' he said at the lobby. 'We have two adjoining rooms booked.'

He might call her his niece and Joanna, at 19, was young enough to be that but she was not any blood relation. She was more or less his ward one could say though not strictly legally that either. But certainly George Bellish felt all the responsibility of a guardian: not onerous but a serious matter. Especially in these days when one can see all around the results of modern, less structured life. A complete abrogation of responsibility in other words, no sense of purpose, or discipline. This was the last thing he wanted to see in his Joanna. Mr Bellish guarded constantly against it. At his home in Wiltshire and also when, as now, they were on a short holiday. One had perhaps to be even more careful on holiday when the regime he had ordained at home could easily be replaced by the sybarytic cosseting of hotel staff.

But on the other hand the different, more cosmopolitan surroundings of a well-appointed hotel did offer extra opportunities for shall we say testing of his very attractive young companion.

'This seems pleasant enough,' he observed when the bellboy had disappeared after showing them their quarters: two pleasantly furnished rooms facing the sea on the second floor, with bathrooms en suite and of course the interconnecting door.

'Yes, Uncle George.' Joanna delicately testing her double bed with her most attractive bottom. She was a very attractive girl all over, from the top of her head of thick ash-blonde hair cut medium short to the tips of her toes, at present in white high-heeled courts. The distance between these two ends was some 5' 6" in her stockinged feet. They were — the stockings — just that. Mr Hellish abhorred the abominable tights which for some years had been almost ubiquitous. Even if stockings had not made something of a come-back he would certainly have had Joanna in them, with a nice suspender belt. That or simply bare-legged. The 5' 6" was composed of all the usual bits and pieces that 19 year old girls have except that with Joanna one could say they were Jaguar components rather than run-of-the-mill Ford. A pert-nosed, full-lipped face; and the rest slim but nonetheless well-rounded wherever it should be. As was of course especially evident when Joanna had no clothes on.

Perhaps George Bellish had this in mind, to be refreshed by this sight after the mildly tiring drive down. 'I should take a shower,' he observed. Meaning, as his young companion knew, Joanna rather than himself. She smiled and stood up. 'Yes. Should I unpack first perhaps?'

Mr Bellish didn't feel there was need for unpacking at this moment. No. He wanted to see Joanna. In the shower and out. Before and after. And not only see her. There was something else. One needed to get into a routine right away in strange surroundings.

Joanna, standing, was already unfastening, unbuttoning. Obediently. 'And perhaps we can walk on the front afterwards. Before dinner.' Her big blue eyes with a shine to them. Excitement. And also apprehension. A girl may in a way be used to something but that does not mean... that it doesn't cause... a little shiver. The thought. Because taking her clothes off... usually means.

Discipline for one thing. A disciplinary session. The sight of Joanna unclothed seemed to send Mr Bellish — Uncle George — reaching for... his cane. Or a similar item. Joanna tried not to look at Mr Bellish who had sat down in the armchair and was undoubtedly looking at her. As blouse and skirt came off. And the rest: slip and bra and knickers. Suspender belt and stockings last of all. Sometimes he would make her keep them on. While he went to get the cane. Her peripheral vision said that Uncle George was getting up. Coming towards...

Standing with her knickers in her hand and the stockings still on. Mr Bellish patting her bare bottom. 'Not putting on any little extra ounces, are we, Joanna dear?' His hand smacked: a meaty splat. 'Second helpings of pudding perhaps?'

Joanna said a sharp 'No!' Her weight was a constant nine stone, give or take a few ounces.

The hand splatted again, causing a heavy judder of the undeniably firm flesh. George Bellish didn't really think there was any extra weight on this splendid shape but it paid to keep a girl on her toes. His other hand came up and rubbed across Joanna's pert breasts, taking in the soft pink nipples. Her breath hissed out in a sibilant. 'Ooooh.'

'I don't know, Joanna. I don't know. I wonder if you are putting on just a little. And with rich hotel food... Should we perhaps have you on a diet whilst you're here? Bread and water. And some nice big spoonfulls of healthy cod-liver oil for vitamins!

'No! Please...' she squealed. The trouble with Uncle George was that you never knew when he was joking or not. The most outrageously awful things could turn out to be for real. Like the first time he said she was going to get the cane across her bare bottom. He couldn't mean that. So she had thought.

'We'll see,' Mr Bellish said. He rubbed her nipples again. They were firmer now, beginning to stick out. 'Actually I rather like the idea of cod-liver oil. It is good for you. Perhaps we could get someone to bring some up...'

'No...ooo...' she breathed. But Mr Bellish had that look in his eye. He gave the pretty tits a final fondle — Joanna's nipples were right up now — and slapped her bottom. 'Get your stockings off and have your shower.' He was sitting down. Picking up the phone.

'Nooo... oooo...'

'Get in the shower, Joanna!'

Joanna obeyed. Shoes and stockings and suspender belt off and walking with that lovely sway of her bare bottom to the bathroom. Behind her Mr Bellish was talking to the desk. She tried to close her ears. But he was asking...

* * *

A polite knock at the door. 'Noooo....' Joanna breathed again. 'I'll be sick,' she had said a few minutes earlier. 'No you won't be sick,' was the answer. 'I'll hold your nose. A person can't be sick if someone is holding their nose.'

Joanna was in her dressing gown: sea-green silk, knee length and fastened with a sash. Nothing underneath. She had had her shower and she hadn't been caned. Because Mr Hellish had got this other diabolical idea. Cod-liver oil.

It was a waiter. In a short white jacket; middle-aged, sort of Italian looking. And carrying... a bottle... and a big metal spoon. Mr Hellish let him in and closed the door. Began explaining. Joanna tried not to listen but of course she was listening.

'My niece may have some trouble taking it. So... if I hold her while you...'

The waiter was going to give it to her. He was grinning, and nodding. Joanna felt herself sweating, her face scarlet. She shook her head. 'No. I... can do it.' Although she doubted if she could actually take a spoonful of that awful stuff. But anyway Mr Bellish didn't want that. He was going to hold her, he repeated.

'Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there.' It was happening. Mr Bellish behind her pushing Joanna's hands down into the hip-high pockets of the dressing gown. The sash almost immediately came loose, undone, and the dressing gown slid apart. 'No!' she squealed seeing the gown opening, but it was quite possible that Mr Bellish wanted it to happen. He was in that mood. Making her show her tits to the waiter while he fed her this awful stuff. She tried to close her arms together, in the pockets. Mr Bellish grabbed them. Pulled her arms — and the gown — apart. Her tits... and everything else. Her pussy. The waiter's eyes were almost coming out of his head. Mr Bellish let go of her arms and grabbed Joanna's head. Her nose... and her mouth. Forcing it open. 'Come one,' he rasped to the waiter. 'Two good spoonfuls.'

It made her gag. The dreadful oily fishy sensation filling her mouth. She spluttered... but Mr Bellish held Joanna's head back with a firm grip on her nose and forced open her mouth. She had no option but to swallow. There was no thought now for the fact that her gown was gaping wide, exposing her tits, her pussy, to the eager-eyed waiter. 'And another one,' dear Uncle George said.

The big brimming spoon came up again. Tipping into Joanna's open mouth. Some of it was spat out, onto the waiter's nice white jacket, but most of it had to go down. Uncle George let go of her. Joanna grabbed at her mouth. She was gasping, tears in her eyes. A strangled cry and then a stumbling, half-blind dash to the bathroom, the dressing gown trailing out behind her.

'You really didn't take that very well, Joanna. A rather indisciplined performance. Do you agree with that?'

Joanna swallowed and bit her lip. They were in the dining room. A table for two over in the corner with a view out onto the front. Mr Bellish had ordered. Joanna had half expected he might continue what he had started with the castor-oil. Order bread and water for her, to continue her humiliation. To make her cringe as she sat here. It was the same waiter, the one a little while ago in the room oblingingly spooning that gagging stuff between her lips. But Mr Bellish hadn't done that; he had let her choose.

'Don't you agree, Joanna?'

'I couldn't... help it. I just couldn't.' She could still feel it in her mouth. 'I was going to be sick.'

'But you should have done better. It's no answer to say you couldn't help it. It is simply weakness, isn't it?'

Joanna mumbled something. But there was no point in showing dissent; that would simply make it worse.

'I think we're going to need a little taste of the cane, my dear.'

Joanna rolled her big blue eyes. But it was no more or less than she could have expected. Mr Bellish — Uncle George — had caned and strapped her for less than this. At times for nothing at all. She squirmed her bottom on the chair.

'And I'm going to ask the waiter to do it.'

Joanna blinked. She wanted to scream out. That Uncle George just couldn't humiliate her in that way. But screaming in public, in a hotel dining room, would be a terrible offence. Her cheeks had gone bright red. A hissed, whispered, 'Please...'

Mr Bellish said, 'I shall ask him to take your knickers down and make sure you really feel it. Right after dinner I think.'

The waiter was coming over with the soup. Joanna fixed her eyes on the patch of dazzling white table cloth immediately in front of her. Seconds later the soup plate was placed there. That hand holding it had spooned caster-oil into her mouth... and was now going to be wielding Uncle George's cane. Because he meant it, it wasn't a joke. Uncle George was in one of those awful moods when he would do impossibly awful things to her. Things that were done in the name of discipline. He meant it. He was saying it to the waiter.

'After dinner if you're free I'd like you to come up to the room again.'

Joanna glanced up, face scarlet. Her eyes met the waiter's. He smiled. He was no doubt remembering her bare tits and pussy, and the strangled cries she made as that stuff was poured between her forced-open lips. And he was no doubt wondering if there was going to be something else like that.

* * *

Mr Bellish didn't beat about the bush. As soon as the man was in the room he told him. 'I want you to cane my niece for me. She did not behave at all well earlier. All that struggling and spluttering. Getting it on your jacket in fact. She needs a caning. And I don't really like caning her myself.'

That wasn't true; Mr Bellish was quite happy caning her and he did it often enough. He simply wanted the extra humiliation of her being caned by the waiter. 'Can you do that?' Mr Bellish asked.

The waiter looked confused but as the meaning sunk in his expression changed to one of excitement — as well it might. 'Yes. Of course.' He had a slight Italian accent. He was wearing an informal sweater now, not the white jacket. 'Yes. Of course,' he repeated looking hotly at Joanna.

She was wearing the same dress as in the dining room: form-fitting pale green jersey-knit material. But Mr Bellish had made her take off the slip and bra she had had underneath. Now Joanna had only a brief pair of bikini knickers under the dress. Their outline showed through; as did the outline of her bare nipples.

'I want her to really feel it. Can you cane her really hard?' Uncle George's voice was dispassionate, as if he were discussing how he wanted his steak done. The steak, though, was Joanna's bottom.

The waiter nodded, eager-eyed. 'Whatever you say. Young girls these days need some discipline, yes?'

'Yes they do. Joanna, lift your dress. Right up. Over your head.'

She was standing by her bed still not fully able to believe Uncle George would go through with it. But disbelief or not he was handing the cane to this man. 'Lift it, Joanna.'


The stretchy material came up, rather like skinning an animal. Inside-out and up over her head and raised arms. Her body trembling, nude except for the tiny bikini pants. Her bare tits sticking out. 'Now lie over the bed.' Mr Bellish's voice heard from inside the green-lit tent of the dress. 'Lie over the bottom of the bed.'


She was down on the bed and someone was pulling her knickers down. It was the waiter. Mr Bellish had gone to sit in the armchair, she could tell that from his voice. It was the waiter's hands on her, tugging her knickers down across her knees. Her bottom was bare and she could sense the waiter drinking it in with his hot eyes. And relishing the thought of the cane.

'Give it to her then. I want you to hurt her.'

Uncle George from across the room, his voice dispassionate as ever. A little pause... Joanna readied herself...


THWATTT!

Her cry was muffled in the bed cover. The man had done as instructed; it was as bad as any Mr Bellish himself had ever given her. Like a knife slicing into the ripe crests of her buttocks.


THWATT!

Almost on top of the first one, and just as bad. Joanna opened her mouth to bite into the bedspread. Her face was wet. She was dribbling, or crying. Or both.


THWACCKK!


After four of them Joanna felt her dress being pulled down. Not right down, just to her waist. Her bottom was still bare: her red-striped quivering nates. But she could see now. The man. As Mr Bellish turned her face sideways. His hand came on her burning bottom.

'All right, Joanna dear? You're all right, aren't you?'

She made a sobbing sound. Yes she was crying.

'It's not finished yet, my dear. You've got to have some more. But I have to go out. I've an appointment to see a gentleman. I shall leave you here with Mr Tardelli. You're to do exactly what he says. Agree to whatever he tells you. Is that clear?'

What? What...? Joanna made another sobbing, choking sound. Her poor bottom felt red hot. And she was to have some more. Was that what Mr Bellish was saying? More of the cane.

'What...?' she managed. But he was going out. The door closing behind him. She was here alone with this man, the waiter. Mr Tardelli, Uncle George had said. As if to bring this home to Joanna he now sat down next to her on the bed, where Mr Bellish had sat. His hand came onto her bottom; like Mr Bellish's had.

'Your Mr Bellish says you are to have some more, Joanna. You heard him say it.' His voice was nervous, excited. As if he could scarcely believe this. The hand was fondling her bare bottom. His fingers sliding down in underneath.

Joanne gave a yelp... and the fingers pushed firmly in. Hard in between her warm thighs. 'I think you need something else as well as the cane, Joanna. Mr Bellish told me he thought you needed it.'

'No!' she yelped, all at once aware that he wasn't only talking about the cane.

The fingers came away. He smacked her still-hot bottom. 'Yes Joanna. First some more cane. And then something else that a young girl needs, eh?' He was all at once grabbing at Joanna's lowered knickers. Pulling them on down. Off over her struggling feet.


'Yes. First the cane,' he repeated. 'And then that other thing!'

* * *

Mr Bellish was away about an hour. When he got back Joanna was still lying on the bed, sprawled on her front. The light was off and the curtains closed. Without switching the lights on he went to sit on the bed next to her. Joanna's skirt was halfway down her thighs. Her knickers were lying on the carpet still. Mr Bellish's hand slid up under the skirt, to her warm bare bottom.

'Come on,' he said softly. 'Time for bed.' His hand gently caressed. 'You can come in my bed tonight.'

Love's Rough Justice

Story from Janus 102.

Love's Rough Justice
by John Undermeyer

Time was, when a man could hang for stealing bread. But what if a beautiful woman could bear anything but his death?

THE Welcome Home Tavern was a favourite mooring for sailors. At almost every tide some newcomer humped a studded sea-chest up the inn's crooked stairs. Sailors made the place exciting. We never became used to their weird tattoos, missing eyes and legs, scarred hands and matted pigtails, and when they told of their adventures they mesmerised us.

For a few yards of ale, spiced with cloves and warmed with a glowing iron, they would entertain the table. But tonight we dined without Jack Tar. This was Saturday 24th April 1743 – our friend Doctor Timothy's birthday.

We finished the eggs, trout, jugged hare and mature Stilton. The port circled the table several times. We were all in our early twenties; all the marrying kind. The talk was lewd but mere bravado: only the Doctor had enjoyed a woman and none of us had a wife.

We laughed with, and thought what we would do to, the serving maids. But our dreams were of a mistress more highly-born. As high as the raven-haired, slender-figured Lady Katherine Tovey who lived in Plimpton Manor with her irascible father, Lord Joshua.

An only daughter, her mother ran off with Lord Joshua's younger brother when Katherine was ten years old. So shocking an event could never be kept secret in Longfield. But it had happened a decade past; Lady Katherine was now 20.

Gossip held that she inherited her mother's rebel nature but it was hard to believe when you saw her smile. When men stood agape, devouring her face and figure, she stayed all the time silent, unwilling to look them in the eye. Her father never knew her mind and watched her constantly.

Doctor Timothy wiped his spoon and tapped loudly on the table. He had a story for us and by the way he laughed we knew he had saved it for tonight. We settled down and, satisfied all were listening, he took a red, wet mouthful of Taylor's Reserve and began.

I was fortunate last week (he said) to be at Plimpton Manor. I am not often called there but Mrs Babbington, the cook, had an ague and Lord Joshua sent for me to examine her. I did so, and was riding off, when a mighty shout pierced the night.

In less than a minute I was back in the main hall. I saw Osric, the butler, with two other servants wrestling to hold an intruder. I was struck, at once, by the colour of the stranger's hair: it was straw-gold. The rest of him was formidable: well over six feet tall, his body in proportion, and he looked – until I threw myself into the fray – that he might win.

We struggled for several minutes and I received some unpleasant cuffs. Then Osric produced a pistol. Feeling this at his temple, the stranger knew better than to fight on. It was not until we had him bound to a chair that we breathed easily again. We stood close to him, gradually regaining some composure, until Lord Tovey hurried down the stairs.

A pace behind him came Lady Katherine, dressed as if she were going out. She wore all black: riding boots, high-necked dress tight at the waist and hanging to the floor, boots, cape and gloves. With one hand she was taking off her hat; the other still held her horsewhip. She looked tense and milk-pale.

Reaching the tied man Lord Tovey began an interrogation. The story that emerged astonished us all. The prisoner had come for one purpose only: to collect Lady Katherine. A pair of horses were tethered nearby. They planned to elope.

Her father whirled upon her, furious and frightened. It was as if history would repeat itself. I understood how terrible that would be for him. The girl glared back, defiant and unflinching. Yes, she meant to leave. Her father's regime, her own wilfulness and clandestine meetings with Christian (whom I guessed was the stranger) had made up her mind. She could not wait to be far from Longfield; wanted never to see Joshua again.

But his Lordship had other suspicions. He flung back her cape. Tied to her waist was her jewel box. He cut it loose and opened it. A pile of precious stones sparkled in the firelight. This was the truth of the matter: not elopement, but robbery. Could she not see, he raged at her, that she was the victim of a plausible rogue? The thief's interest was not in her, but in her fortune. He meant to ride to the edge of Longfield, steal the gems and make off.

Vehemently Katherine declared this was a lie. She loved this blond fellow and her love was returned. Her affection for him was easy to believe seeing his handsome face, square jaw, and full head of curls. But for the man: his ardour was doubtful and neither her father nor myself believed in it.

Lord Joshua signalled to me. Since my horse was saddled, would I ride to the troopers in Fairmile and bring an officer and cohort to take the burglar into custody? Let him rot in gaol, declared his Lordship. In a month he can be at the County assizes, before the circuit judge.

I was halfway to the door when Lady Katherine screamed. She ran to her father, hair flailing, and fell on her knees. 'Please do not call the troopers,' she implored him. Lord Joshua swore he would. The girl seized his hands, her lips pushing into his palms in supplication. Despite his fury the old man was embarrassed. But he forced back his pity and gave vent to his bile. Craven crimes had been committed: house-breaking, assault, abduction and theft. Possibly murder would have been next – who was to say Katherine would have escaped with her life? Someone must suffer: someone must pay.

Katherine was distraught and we were moved by her desperation. 'Can you not understand?' she cried. 'Robbery is a capital offence. With all of you to speak against him he must be found guilty. The judge will name the highest penalty. Christian will hang.'

We knew it was true. And, we began to muse, this blond Christian might well have meant to carry Katherine to his own home, there to make her his wife. If this were so, death was too severe a penalty. We had no doubt that even in this modern age, men went to the gallows too often.

Lady Katherine raised herself and begged her father to be lenient. If someone must suffer let it be her. Let her father bring her to heel. She would submit, be penitent and dutiful. She wrung her hands, beseeching forgiveness.

The old man blazed at her with his eyes. He turned to the prisoner and back to the girl. I could tell he felt some reluctance to be responsible for the fellow's death. Finally, after wrestling with his demons, he growled assent. Then, as if already regretting his lenience he roared, spun Katherine round and propelled her towards the stairs, a clenched fist and angry finger pointing her towards her bedroom.

When she had gone he turned back to the men. Osric and the others were to stand guard. The fellow must not be released. Perhaps, if Katherine was properly repentant, there could be a reprieve. But for now he must wait. Turning then to me, his Lordship bid me follow him upstairs. In the mood he was in it were well to have a doctor present.

I climbed the wide, creaking staircase a pace behind him, thinking as I went that if our destination were Katherine's bedroom, what should I do? True, I was a medical man, but I was of Katherine's generation and (unless she were ill) would never be allowed near where she slept. Yet I said nothing, but followed her father's clattering boots until he stopped at a door, paused fractionally then charged in, motioning me to follow.

The room was gloomy, with narrow windows that needed wash. Across one wall stood a giant four-poster surrounded by heavy curtains, open and tied back. The counterpane was embroidered damask, the sheets linen. Two goose-feather pillows were piled by the headboard. It looked old but comfortable. I wondered when the mattress had last been aired.

Six candles struggled to give us light. But there was light enough to see what I wanted to. Lady Katherine lay stretched on the bed. The outdoor clothes she had been wearing were strewn across the floor, her boots and stays slung on to a chair. She was naked and had not dared to slip beneath the covers. She knew that to appease Lord Joshua, she must not hide.

Her face was buried deep into a pillow and she had the cover clenched between her teeth. Her hands either side of her head also grasped pillows, kneading slowly, indicating her helplessness. When she felt us gazing she crushed her pelvis into the mattress, anxious to hide that part of her which I was most eager to see.

Her long black hair spread like silk across her back. Candlelight caught the upthrust of her buttocks which, I am sure, she squeezed tight in an attempt to feel more modest. From her bottom she flowed into trim thighs and slender legs. She was lovely, and she was weeping.

Lord Joshua motioned me to the far side of the room. I was to stand and observe but say nothing unless spoken to. I made myself inconspicuous, happy just to look. Katherine lifted her head, whimpered and began to tremble. I saw that her father had found her riding crop, which she had left on her dressing table.

He wasted no time. Katherine was prepared and the sooner it were done the better. He walked to the edge of the bed and satisfied himself that the girl was properly submissive. Then, deliberately measuring the distance between himself and that beautiful pale bottom, he clenched the whip handle tightly. The candles flickered, I caught myself licking my lips, Joshua took a deep breath. Katherine had only one thought in her mind – the prisoner downstairs.

Joshua's arm drew back. Nothing could stop what was about to happen. Lips tight, he drove the whip down. It travelled those few feet in a fraction of an instant, before burying itself into her delicate flesh with a sound like a wet cloth on stone.


From that moment, in the silence before the cry, it seemed that everything which had taken place, every move made, every word spoken, every thought in every head was pure dream.

The thief's arrival, the fight, Katherine's pleading and submission: it had been seen through stage gauze. It was vague, hazy, indistinct, not defined, not real. Certainly not real. It was too comfortable and unimportant to be real. It was mummery; actors in a play; nothing like life.

Only Katherine knew about life – life was intolerable. All her fine thoughts, imagined love, willing self-sacrifice, her unquestioned offering of her bottom to the whip – all this was folly. More: it was madness. Nobody who knew would do this. A stroke from a riding crop across naked flesh – only that was real. And that was so real, it was unbearable. Only one thing mattered after that. Only one thought burst into the mind. Only one desire, one desperate aim, one purpose.

She must escape; rise up and fly; soar like a bird into the sky, to freedom, to blessed release from pain. Her pain could not be imagined. It was comets colliding. Sunbursts in the night. An age before birth and after death. Arrows in the heart. Worse than childbirth. She could not bear the hurt that took her, never mind the hurt to come.

Katherine knew that if Lord Joshua faltered for a second she would leap from the bed. She could not bear another stroke. No matter that her Christian would dance on a rope. She would let him – nay, want him to, rather than allow the agonising horsewhip to lash her bottom again.

But before she could rise, before she could slip out from beneath her punishment, the second stroke came down. The whole room was awake now. The candles blazed like permanent lightning. The walls shrieked in silent suffering. Lord Joshua and I moved into a new dimension. We were dead creatures, with no notion of truth. Only Katherine knew truth: fierce, vibrant, searing, forever indelible on her mind.

I know why. Katherine did not rebel. Because as the third and fourth strokes came down she stopped wondering why she offered her bottom and remembered she was saving a man's life. So instead of twisting to escape the fierce lashes, she rose into them. She grasped the bedclothes and seemingly pushed her bottom up to actively greet the descending whip. She must overcome pain, and the fear of pain. Her punishment was simply justice, suffered to prevent a fatal injustice.

However deep the fire burned it would eventually be over. She would rise from the bed, walk to the window and, in time, be comfortable again. But if, instead, Christian was punished: the thought was worse than even this...

No matter that her face twisted like flames as she fought to be brave. She could bear to writhe under the biting crop. Tears were nothing. Cries and howls were a passing affair. The air sang, the breath left her body, the twin mounds of her bottom shivered as they absorbed the strokes. It was nothing compared to the rope that broke a man's neck.

Before the punishment ended all Katherine knew was that her body was a great light, incandescent in the gloomy bedroom, a torch that burned to save Christian's life. When her father and I left her she continued to shine, face deep in her pillow, tears soaking the feathers, struggling to still her body, grateful that she wept for an incomparable cause. When she looked from her window at dawn she wondered if the sun had come out watery in sympathy for her tears.

Lord Joshua's fury spent, he ordered the prisoner released and escorted to his horse. Christian must never return to Longfield. If he did, Katherine would pay and the second thrashing would be worse than the first. The flaxen-haired adventurer disappeared and whether he will return remains to be seen – I rather think he might. Because I know you will agree, gentlemen (the Doctor's eye went round the table fixing us all) greater love hath no woman.

The story was at an end. Doctor Timothy stretched, drew his fingers through his hair and scratched vigorously. He banged his spoon again on the table: who the devil had the port? – pass it at once. Then bid the Landlord refill the decanter.

Our dinner at the Welcome Home Tavern ended late but we left sober enough to find our homes and climb the stairs to bed. Under the sheets, each thought of Katherine. Each saw in his imagination the woman whipped to save her love.

It would not have surprised the Doctor to know that lying awake that night, each of his companions pictured a perfect young lady's incandescent bottom and held it in his mind. Then each took his own incandescent candle in his hands. And gently, unhurriedly, with long, firm strokes, each put out the light.

Dented Rear

Story from Janus 68.

Dented Rear
by Andrew Grantham

IT WAS unusually early in the evening for Louise to be taking a bath, but Robert had ordered his bride of just four weeks to do so.

She emptied out the water and towelled herself vigorously until her skin glowed to nearly the colour of her hair. Then she padded to the bedroom, sat down on the dressing-table stool and reached for her lipstick and most expensive duty free perfume. Well, if Robert wanted to play games! Preparation indeed!

A couple of minutes later, with her hair brushed and her skin shining she stood, totally nude, in front of Robert, her 25-year-old accountant husband.

He leaned back into the depths of the settee, his heart beating faster than usual as he stared at the gorgeous, newly-bathed Louise.

The dark-haired, lean-framed Robert liked possessions, as witnessed by the elegant suburban home, the fittings and the gadgets about the place. The young whizz-kid accountant regarded Louise as a possession, too.

He was obsessively proud of the slim, 5' 4" tall girl with shoulder-length curly red hair who had been legally his for the past four weeks. Males always looked twice at her and it pleased him to fix admirers with a stare that silently said, 'Put your thoughts back in your trousers, she's all mine!'

Of course, no outside admirer ever saw Louise as he was seeing her now — submissively naked and displaying physical charms which would arouse passions in the most celibate of priests.

Her high, firm breasts jutted out provocatively. The nipples stood out too, red and erect from delicate pink areolae. Her tummy was flat and firm. Long, exquisitely shaped legs naturally led eyes to her bush of red-gold fur at the top of exciting, muscular thighs.

Her upturned nose and slight pout gave Louise a sophisticated, yet arrogant, appearance. Looking straight into his rather cold blue eyes with her own sparkling green eyes, she snorted, 'This is a silly game for grown-ups to play!'

'We're not playing games, Louise!' retorted Robert firmly. 'As I told you when I came in, I'm going to give you a bloody good spanking for denting the back of my car!'

'It was an accident, Robert!' she protested, noting that he had said 'my car' and not 'our car'. The red BMW was Robert's property, not hers!

'It was sheer carelessness!' rapped her husband unsympathetically.

Louise was resigned to her fate at the hands of the athletically-built young man who had courted her for the past eighteen months. There was no way her friends, or sister even, would have consented to what she had consented to as reparation for her 'sheer carelessness'. Louise, however, was anxious to please her new husband — and fully aware of the benefits of his high salary. Furthermore, she had promised to 'love, honour and obey'.

Seductively, she placed one nicely-rounded knee on his knee. Her left hand cupped her left breast and the fingers of her right hand covered his crotch. 'Wouldn't you rather do something else to me?' she asked softly, running the blade of her tongue between her glossy lips.

Robert's answer was to lean forward and reach out a hand, dragging his young wife over his lap. Louise squealed as she fell, but allowed herself to be positioned so that her hips were resting against his left thigh. Robert made her place her hands on the carpet on one side of his legs whilst her toes dug into the thick pile on the other.

He glided a palm over her firm yet softly yielding bottom. The pale-fleshed cheeks were round and full. His nostrils twitched as the fragrance with which she had coated her succulent body drifted up to them.

Louise was quiet now and Robert was aware that she was trembling slightly as she waited for her physical punishment to commence.

'Poke it up for me!' he ordered, prodding the target flesh with a forefinger.

Louise shifted the position of her hands and feet to thrust her shivery behind up as instructed.

'You must keep still the whole time!' was the final commandment from Robert as he raised his open hand up to the level of his head.

Down it came, the sharp percussive ring of the slap filling the quiet room for just a fraction of a second before it was absorbed by a loud 'Owwwwww!' from Louise.

She kicked her long, smooth legs most attractively and Robert smiled as he watched her lewd disclosures. He put his left arm around her waist and raised his stinging palm once more.

Louise, however, did not cry out as the second slap landed. Her right cheek took the brunt of the blow this time. It had been her right cheek which had suffered after the first smack.

Hidden by her waterfall of red hair, Louise screwed up her pretty features. Robert certainly wasn't being playful. All this for a little dent in the back of his precious BMW!

She drew her buttocks together, waiting for the next slap.

It duly landed on the pinkly-flushed bare cheeks and Louise inhaled sharply. She remembered the instruction to keep still and she did her best to comply.

Robert looked at the quivering buttocks. They were colouring nicely but Louise should have been shouting and squirming by now. He would have to use more force, he decided.

Louise would have been surprised had she been able to see the severity of the expression on her husband's face as he began to deliver a crisp tanning rather than occasional, haphazard slaps. He objected strongly to driving round in a dented car — even if it was an E reg!

Slap after slap rained down on his wife's much squirming bottom and she felt herself clenching and unclenching the hurt nates.

The kicking of her legs, the high-pitched squeals and the movement of her body, constrained by his left arm, brought him some satisfaction. He'd teach her to drive more carefully in the future!

The redhead's fingers scrabbled at the carpet and her legs scissored open and shut with the urgent heat building up in her beleaguered bottom — and now on the backs of her thighs as Robert decided to give the livid buttocks some respite.

Gradually, the agitated movements of his wife's body turned into rhythmic gyrations and he was surprised to hear husky grunts of sexual stimulation coming from her throat.

Louise herself experienced a delicious tickle of excitement in her love pit...

* * *

Next morning, after Robert had left for his commuter train, Louise looked at the calendar on the kitchen door. She tapped a pencil against her shiny, white teeth. Yes, three weeks on Wednesday. That would be a decent interval of time, she thought. She circled the figures 27 with her pencil.

Smiling to herself, she wondered what she would answer if Robert noticed and asked her what was the significance of the date in the circle.

Louise rubbed her denim-covered rump. Her bottom was still a little bit tender. Robert had certainly given it to her good and hard — and not just the spanking! Yes, it had turned out to be a very delightful evening after all. The bout of love-making following the hiding had been more intense than any on their actual honeymoon.

When Robert came home from the office on the twenty-seventh, she would nervously tell him that she had scraped the wing of the BMW (his BMW!) getting it out of the garage. It would only be a little scrape of course but he would be bound to tell her to take an early bath!

A Justifiable Cause

Story from Whispers 05.

A Justifiable Cause

'Your Aunt has left this matter entirely in my hands, Elizabeth. I want you to understand that.'

She stood in the middle of the sitting-room, feeling quite desolate. So alone. Mrs Mason was not her Aunt, nor was her husband, her Uncle. It was only custom over the years that had given them such nominations. Elizabeth knew she was alone.

Her Report lay on the table.

An indictment...

She knew she had not done well last Term. But her mind had been so much on other things. She was sixteen now, growing up. Other girls at the School had parents. Love and attention. She was alone. That was very difficult to adjust to when one finally became aware of it. No family. Just a tiny individual in a vast world. An uncaring Universe, indeed.

'I... I have tried, Uncle,' she found herself saying, 'but... but I have not been... well... feeling at my best... this term...'

'Not at your best?' Uncle Walter's eyebrows went up in astonishment. 'You're a healthy young girl. You should be approaching your prime. Physically and mentally.'

'I... I'm sorry, Uncle,' Elizabeth felt tears coming. 'It... it's just that... I sometimes feel... so much on... on my own. Alone...'

'How ridiculous!' Walter tugged at his beard. 'There you are, in one of the more expensive Boarding Schools, surrounded by girls of your own age, saying you are lonely! I repeat, that is ridiculous.'

Elizabeth swallowed hard. She knew her Uncle would never understand. There was no point in arguing about it. He, and her Aunt, had their Rules; she had her natural intuitions. 'I can only tell you how I feel,' she said meekly.

'This Report is a disgrace,' said Walter, picking it up. 'There is hardly a single subject which is not criticised by the phrase 'Could Do Better.' To my mind, Elizabeth, that is an euphemistic way of saying you are lazy.'

Euphemistic? What did that mean? Oh why did grown-ups always seem to live on another planet? If only there was someone else to turn to.

'I... I tried...'

Walter shrugged. 'That is what you say. However, your Aunt and I have decided that you should be encouraged to try far harder next term. We are plundering our capital to pay your fees and, quite frankly, we don't want to see them wasted. That is reasonable, surely?'

'Yes... yes... Uncle...' Elizabeth felt tears coming again. Though she didn't like her Uncle and Aunt, she realised they were spending a lot of money on her. It distressed her that she couldn't be better. On the other hand, nobody seemed to ever look at things from her point of view. An orphan. A nobody. Oh how she would have loved to have lots of brothers and sisters! And, of course, parents she knew. That, however, was something she could only dream about. She was faced with the actuality of Uncle Walter and Aunt Grace.

'I have to tell you Elizabeth, that your Aunt and I have decided upon a rather drastic course. We, jointly, consider it the correct means of improving your educational efforts next term. It is an old-fashioned recipe, but I think it will work...'

'O-ohhh... what is that?' Elizabeth half knew (for that had been hinted at before) but she didn't want to truly believe it.

'Elizabeth,' said Walter (trying to look formal rather than lustful), 'you are going to be soundly spanked. No... don't interrupt me... and... if you do not improve next term, you will be even more soundly spanked. Your Aunt and I are convinced this is the only way to deal with this most serious lapse in your behaviour.'

'Ohhh... mmmfff... oh no... no...'

Elizabeth burst into tears. 'I... I... don't deserve it... oooh... surely Auntie wouldn't really spank me?'

'Auntie is not going to spank you,' announced Walter firmly. 'I am.'

* * *

He has told me what to do. I am shocked and shamed. But what else can I do? I am alone in this world. They think it is right. How can I say it is wrong? I am so much younger than they. I have no experience — not truly — of this world. In fact, I have lived in a contrived world for so long.

I stand in my small bedroom, still hardly believing it. Before me is my narrow bed. Outside the darkness of a winter's night.

As he instructed, I have removed my school skirt. Thus I wear only my white blouse and tie, blue school knicks, and white ankle socks. It makes me feel even more helpless. More lonely.

It seems I have been standing here for so long. Just waiting. Maybe it is not more than ten minutes. When will he come? Ten minutes can be an age.

When will he come?

To spank me?

I can hardly believe he is actually going to spank me. It doesn't happen to girls of my age. Not nowadays. I don't know of any who have been spanked. Anyway, if they have, they've never said.

On the other hand, I would never tell, would I?

It is all so shaming.

Oh when will he ever come?

His instructions were clear. Stand by the side of the bed — skirt off — until I arrive. 'It is a matter of discipline, Elizabeth.' She could still hear his voice. The trembling within her intensified. What would it be like? Nothing like this had ever happened before. She knew about olden times. Children being beaten. But it didn't happen today.

So they said.

But it did. In her case, it did.

I must be brave. They have looked after me. Done their best for me.

Perhaps they are right.

Perhaps I am being lazy and stupid. There could be many young girls in this world who would like to change places.

Perhaps not at that precise moment, though.

* * *

He was nervous. But strangely confident. One might have called it a nervous excitement. After all, he had been waiting a long time. For twelve months or more he had wanted to smack that girlish curving bottom. For a legitimate reason, of course... But there had to be a reason and a time. They seemed to have arrived.

Beyond that, Grace had finally and fully agreed. 'Old-fashioned methods are often the best, Walter,' had been her words. 'I'll leave it to you.'

Well, it had now been left to him.

As he opened the door, he wondered for a moment, if she would actually be there. But she was. More than that she was standing exactly as he had ordered. Facing the bed, with her skirt off.


Navy blue knickers clinging to a swelling bottom.

Oh what an enticing bottom it was!

No... no... he must not indulge himself. This was a matter of family discipline. That was what it was, wasn't it?

But, oh, how that bottom swelled.

He would have it knickerless!

Naked.

And he would smack it and smack it!

She deserved it, didn't she?

When you thought about it, there was nothing really wrong about it. Girls had been having their bottoms smacked for years and years. For centuries. Once it had been quite the normal thing. It was only recently that some people had started to pontificate about it.

A lot of rubbish.

He knew he was well justified. Grace had confirmed that. He saw that the girl was crying softly; trembling. He could understand that very well.

My goodness, she had grown up in the last few months.

That wasn't a schoolgirl bottom, even if it were clad in schoolgirl's knickers. It was the bottom of a young woman. His desires too. Particularly that desire to spank that lush young flesh.

She was a naughty, lazy girl... and she deserved it. He was justified!

He closed the door quietly but firmly. This was the moment. 'Elizabeth,' he heard himself saying, 'kneel by the side of the bed and bend across it.'

'P-please, Uncle... must you do it? I'll be better... I will!'

'It has been decided. It is for your own good.'

His tension subsided a little as he watched the girl kneel. It seemed she was going to comply. That was something. That was a start. What would happen later was still a matter for conjecture.

The blue knickers fascinated him; so did the swell of the buttocks. Now it was all actually happening. And it had occupied his mind for so long.

Elizabeth was about to be spanked. By him.

'Take down your knickers,' he said, finding himself choking on the words which had been in his head indefinitely.

'Oh... no... no!' came the despairing cry.

It was one he had expected.


Walter decided immediately it was no time for prevarication. He must act. Resolutely, he moved to the bed, pinned the girl over it and pulled down those blue knickers. The swelling nakedness of girl flesh was exposed to him. Flesh that deserved to be punished.

'No... n-no... U-Uncle no...oooo!'


With hand on the girl's back, Walter began to slap the soft-lush flesh. Hard... hard... hard! Oh what a lovely sound it made... oh how delicious it was to do. Again... again... again!

'Oh stop... stop... ohhh... you're hurting me... oowww... owww!'

'Of course I'm hurting you...' panted Walter. 'That's what you deserve. That's what this is all about.'

Again and again Walter's hand descended on the pulsating flesh... getting redder and redder all the time... until Elizabeth, almost frantic now, twisted off the bed and ran for the door. From his point of view, sensibly Walter had locked it. For, he was by no means finished with this youngster yet. She deserved a spanking and she was going to get a good one!

Elizabeth was struggling desperately to escape Walter's grasp. She had never imagined it would be as terrible as this. She had had enough... more than enough!

But then she found herself over his knees, pinioned firmly, her burning bottom helplessly exposed.


The merciless smacking-slaps began again. There was no let-up. They seemed to come harder and harder and harder. Every one of them blazing worse.

He didn't stop. Uncle Walter, inflamed by the release of a fantasy held for far too long, went on spanking and spanking. Until his vein-lined face was as red-puce in colour was Elizabeth's bottom. Only then did he sink back in exhausted happiness, dimly realising that Elizabeth was thrashing about on the floor, hands pressed to her nates, sobbing and choking unrestrainedly.

She deserved it, he told himself. It will have done her the world of good.

I deserved it, too, he thought. I've waited so long. But what good will it have done me? Will I have to wait until the end of next term?

* * *

'No trouble, Walter?' Grace put her knitting down.

'Nothing that worried me, my dear,' replied Walter, still trying to appear calm after the rigours of the evening. 'I dealt with her adequately, I think.'

'Good...' Grace nodded. 'It has occurred to me, Walter,' she said, giving him a sly smile. 'It might be better if we had Elizabeth at a local school. Not Boarding. Then we could keep a closer eye on her, eh? What do you think?'

Walter realised, in that instant, he had just about the most understanding wife possible. 'I... I... er... yes... I definitely agree...' he said. Then he got up and poured himself a very large Scotch. His right hand was so hot and sore, the glass really was most difficult to hold! But no matter!